


feed you up

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: under 1k fic [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Humor, Gen, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Martha Hudson, sherlock and food, sherlock has a sweet tooth, someone needs to make sure sherlock eats, they come up with a foolproof plan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-03 20:16:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10257074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: Sherlock has a sort of disordered eating and they've figured out that pushing food at him will only make him testy and prone to a fit. However, if sweets are left out unattended he will gravitate toward them.It rarely works at 221B because he's much too distracted by cases and tacking crime scene photos to the wall or chiding John about using up all the hot water on his 'obscenely long baths.'(John and Mrs. Hudson are partners in crime)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [sherlock and sweets gif set](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/273872) by artmesisfowls. 



 

* * *

 

John bounds down the stairs and takes a sharp left to Mrs. Hudson's flat. It's a Tuesday and she's returned from the shoppe not fifteen minutes ago.

The door is unlocked per usual so he lets himself inside. The smell of freshly brewed jasmine tea fills the air and leads to her tiny kitchen. She's one step ahead of him, already carefully arranging lemon tarts on a fine china plate adorned with delicate painted roses. 

He pauses by the table, catching his breath. "You've got them?"

She plops the final pastry on the plate and turns with a proud smile. "Lemon custard."

"What's the emergency this week?" He asks, taking one for himself. 

Her eyes glitter impishly. Today's jolly mood and conniving are helped along by her herbal soothers it appears. She has long since dropped the pretense of partaking in them for medicinal reasons and he thinks,  _Whatever gets you out of bed in the morning._

"I'm afraid the canister of coffee is in the top shelf," she declares, shaking her head. "And at my age." 

John laughs, marveling in her genius. Sherlock has a sort of disordered eating and they've figured out that pushing food at him will only make him testy and prone to a fit. However, if sweets are left out unattended he  _will_ gravitate toward them. It rarely works at 221B because he's much too distracted by cases and tacking crime scene photos to the wall or chiding John about using up all the hot water on his 'obscenely long baths.' 

Additionally, his mouth is otherwise occupied when sweaty sheets and searing kisses become a sort of barrier against the rest of the world. Mrs. Hudson doesn't need to know that. Catching them in the act once was enough mutual horror for a lifetime. 

"Thank you," he says, dropping a kiss to her forehead.

She clucks her tongue, "I really need that coffee. It's a national emergency, you know." 

"Well then I should get right on that."

He sees himself to the door and tries to think of anything else because Sherlock  _will_ notice. He notices everything.

* * *

 

 

"You're getting a step stool for the holiday," Sherlock states, ducking his head to avoid hitting it on the kitchen doorframe. 

"Oh you don't have to go through that trouble, dear. I would hate to fall from it, I've got a hip." She pats her troubled hip for emphasis.

He fails to notice and makes a beeline for the platter of lemon tarts. "These are fresh," he says around a bite of food.

She needs to have a talk with that mother of his about manners. "Are they? I needed a pint of cream and couldn't resist." 

He eats two more before remembering why he was there in the first place. Seamlessly (while still chewing) he stretches a long arm up and retrieves the tin of instant coffee. 

Next, he pours himself a cup of jasmine tea and adds sugar, a dab of cream. "A step stool and a reaching tool. The sort with a claw on the end." 

She puts aside the coffee and makes a cup for herself. Three tarts remain, the mission was a success. John will be thrilled and she can rest easy tonight knowing they got some food in Sherlock. "Oh I'm afraid I'd lose it. My mind these days..." 

"Mmm dementia," he mumbles. 

"What's that, dear?"

He takes a sip of tea, bites into another tart. "I said The tarts are delicious." 

She may be getting up in age but she's not hard of hearing, thank you. Dementia, hmpt. She's perfectly sound and right in the head. However she'll let him think what he must if it means keeping him fed. It's amusing that London's only consulting detective can read a crime scene like it's childsplay but fails to note a plan playing out right under his nose. Sentiment gets him mixed up and confused at times. 

"Are they? I had a sandwich before I left. I couldn't eat another bite."

He sips the last dredges of tea and stands, dusting off his trousers. "I've a case to work on. An  _eight,_ Mrs. Hudson!" He practically leaps out of his skin, he's so excited. It's unnatural what gets him going but she doesn't mind as long as they keep their bags of toes and severed heads upstairs. 

She ushers him to the door, leaving the crumbs and abandoned tea cup behind. "Go on then before John runs off without you." 

He grins, wide and mischievous and dashes off. 

* * *

 

 

Some two hours later, John comes down to open a jar of jam. 

"He ate?"

She takes a puff and exhales. "An entire pan of tarts." 

"Tomorrow?" He questions.

"Slippery hands, dear. A glass just got away from me and hit the floor. It was a terrible accident, really." 

Sherlock loathes cleaning but he hates the idea of Mrs. Hudson getting hurt even more. He's such a softy though he'd deny it to the grave if need be. 

"Good plan." He gestures toward the door and narrowly avoids a cloud of smoke. "Shall I go then?"

She pats his cheek gently and cracks a window. "Close the door on your way out?"

He walks away with a bounce in his step and the knowledge of having pulled one over on the great Sherlock Holmes once again. 

* * *

 

 

 


End file.
